White Dashed Lines
by blablablah221
Summary: After that final, brutal war that culminated in the death of President Snow, Katniss Everdeen and the other Hunger Games survivors are left in a state of disarray. But with a little help from the Witness Protection Program, Katniss may just find sanctuary in a tiny Ohio town called Lima and their budding Glee club.
1. The Train

I awaken in utter darkness, a rough blanket covering me up to my nose. The room in which I lie is cold, and I'm unwilling to get out of bed to face the day. I think to myself, _Maybe I could pretend that I'm ill…Stay home from school, from hunting…Just this once, just this one day_...But then I think of Prim and how her bones stick out and how her cheeks are so hollow and I know that I can't do it.

Prim. The only one who keeps me going.

My fingers slide across the bed to meet hers, but they find nothing. I expect it's another night for bad dreams. On these instances, she'll crawl in bed with our mother, as if that will protect her somehow – though I doubt our mother could protect us from a fly. I never did forgive her for her abandonment, all those years ago.

"Prim." My mouth forms her name, though she's probably asleep, and I really should be getting up now. Gale will be there waiting, wondering if I've been shot by a Peace Keeper or worse. But the bed is so comfortable, the blanket so warm. "Prim, come back to your bed. I'm cold. Prim…"

I open my eyes. And then I remember. The war. The chaos. The parachutes.

_First I get a glimpse of the blonde braid down her back. Then, as she yanks off her coat to cover a wailing child, I notice the duck tail formed by her untucked shirt. I have the same reaction I did the day Effie Trinket called her name at the reaping. At least, I must go limp, because I find myself at the base of the flagpole, unable to account for the last few seconds. Then I am pushing through the crowd, just as I did before. Trying to shout her name above the roar. I'm almost there, almost to the barricade, when I think she hears me. Because just for a moment, as she catches sight of me, her lips form my name. And that's when the rest of the parachutes go off. _

A sob racks through me as these images play like little television screens behind my eyes. Prim. The reaping. My promise. The rebellion. Prim. I cover my mouth with a hand, trying to stifle my cries, though I don't know why I should hide it. I have no reason to act brave, here.

Soon enough, the bright white light above me flickers on and illuminates the room around me. I am lying in a narrow bed, the blankets thin but clean. It reminds me of the hospital, so sterile and bare. In fact, the only thing that reminds me that I'm not in the hospital is the view outside the little square window, which is a blur.

If I hadn't ridden in the train from the Capitol, I would have been scared to death right now. The great big high-speed rail goes so fast that the little houses and trees flashing past me hardly materialize before they are swept away again. I feel like a bird, like a mockingjay. How ironic.

Wiping away the tears stuck on my cheek, I get out of bed and cross the room to the small dresser currently holding all of my worthwhile possessions. The light turns on when it senses motion, which is probably why it came alive when I moved to stifle my cries just now. My mother is intrigued by it, is intrigued by nearly all of the new technologies on this strange, unfamiliar train. The refrigerator, the automatic sliding doors, the laptop computer. As for me, well…it reminds me too much of the Capitol.

She is staying in the next room over, the room separated from mine by a wall. I requested separate sleeping quarters for us both. Even after this entire ordeal, she and I never really regained that closeness we once had before my father died. She always loved Prim too much. But then again, so did I.

"Katniss? Katniss! Are you there?"

My mother has locked herself inside her own room again. The rooms are locked from the inside for our own security, or so we were told. As part of the Witness Protection Program we were forced into after the rebellion, our guardians have taken every precaution available. If I had not put my foot down, there would be someone watching over me while I slept.

"Katniss! Kat – oh, I mean, Elizabeth!"

They have changed our names, too. As part of the WPP I have legally and officially become Elizabeth Hamilton. I haven't quite gotten used to it – when people call me by my new name I forget to respond, and stumble over introductions. My mother's new name is Sarah, though I still get to call her "Mom".

Taking the plastic card from off of the top of the dresser, I wave it in front of the access pad above the doorknob. The little light goes from an angry orange to a bright green and beeps twice, telling me I have exactly three seconds to open the door before it will lock again. Like everything else here, it's fussy, complicated, and unnecessary. But who am I to complain, when these strange people have done so much for the other surviving refugees and me?

"Thank you," says my mother, as soon as I free her. She is dressed in a plain green dress, one from back home. Seeing her in it reminds me of the past. I push this thought away, knowing it will only lead my mind to Prim.

"How about we get some breakfast?" suggests my mother. She notices my sleep shirt and sighs. "Oh Katniss – I mean _Elizabeth_ – you're not even dressed yet. Do you want me to wait for you, before I go down to the dining carriage?"

"No," I say tersely. She seems about to protest, but changes her mind and walks away wordlessly. I go back into my room and change into a white short-sleeved shirt made of thin cotton fabric and a pair of sturdy blue pants with the word "Levi's" imprinted on them. I don't know what Levi's are or what makes them so special, but the officials assisting us with this program assure me that all of the young people from my age group wear these kinds of pants. It's best if I get used to them sooner rather than later – and that goes for a lot of things.

Nine o'clock to ten-thirty A. M. is my lesson with the popular culture specialist from America, a woman named Shannon. Often these lessons recall the time I spent under Effie's watch, learning to walk in high heels for my first Hunger Games. I still feel just as ridiculous as then.

I glance at the electric clock next to the bed – it's eight-fifty. I've got ten minutes to eat and review my notes before the specialist comes and grills me on questions I don't know the answers to. All kinds of questions – popular music, popular television shows, popular books and movies. These Americans seem to enjoy their entertainment just as much as the Capitol people. Sometimes it sickens me, how many luxuries they have. At least this is the last lesson I'll have to endure. Our train stops for the last time this afternoon in a tiny town called Lima, Ohio.

"No, no, no, that's wrong, Elizabeth. Try again. Which actress stars in the hit teen movie, _Twilight_?" Shannon's frustrated eyes drill into mine, creating creases around her young forehead. The way she looks at me, I might be driving her to premature old age. I dig through my brains, trying my hardest to come up with an answer that sounds right.

"Britney Spears?" I try. Her eyes shut. She sighs deeply, passing a hand over her face. I have failed her. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. It's, um – Kristen Stewart, maybe?"

You'd think I'd just run a marathon. She stands, knocking aside her empty coffee cup, applauding me. I take a mocking bow, secretly pleased with myself. Three weeks ago, I would never have known the answer to that question, ever. "Alright, let's try again," she says, sitting down. Panic rises slowly inside my stomach. "How about I pretend to be a normal teenager, who you're meeting for the first time?" I nod nervously.

"Welcome to Lima! So, tell me about yourself," she says in a fake-cheery voice. I find it hard to imagine anyone actually sounding like that in real life, except maybe Effie.

My name…My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am from District 12. "My name is Elizabeth Hamilton. I'm from Atlanta, Gorga."

"Atlanta, _Georgia_."

"Right! Sorry. I'm from Atlanta, Georgia." This last remark sounds as fake as can be, but Shannon graciously ignores it. She motions for me to continue. "My mom's company moved her up here. She works with Hummel Tires & Lube. You might know her boss – his name is Burt Hummel. His son goes to William McKinley High School."

"Not too much information," Shannon reminds me. "Don't want to unload everything right at the first meeting. Forget everything after the part about 'Hummel Tires & Lube'. Oh my gosh, it's already ten-thirty…I guess that means you and I are done." She looks me up and down once, then twice, blinking rapidly. "I'm very proud of you. After all you've been through, after the horrors of your past…nowadays if I saw you on the streets of America I would think you were just a normal teenager. I know we've only been working together for three weeks, but…You've done well, Katniss." She holds out her hand to shake, and I take it.

"No, thank _you_," I say. "I would know nothing if it weren't for you." She smiles at me, until a knock on the door sounds and we both turn. A man enters the room briskly and without introduction. He is very tall, very old, and very solemn, sporting a white collared shirt and a black suit jacket and pants. Attached to his ear is a tiny black speaker. A similarly shaped microphone is attached to his collar. I recognize these devices from my time making promos for District 13.

"Ms. Hamilton?" he says. It takes me a heartbeat to realize that he's speaking to me. I nod. "The train is pulling into the station in exactly thirty-five minutes. We will get off in a town called Columbus, and then drive to your new home in Lima. Lima is a very small town, but the smaller the better in this case. Are you prepared?"

"Yes," I say honestly. Three weeks with an American popular culture specialist, an entire suitcase full of American clothing, and a folder full of documents detailing my new fake background if I ever forget anything…Yes, I am ready enough.

"Good," says the unfamiliar man. "My name is Mr. Walters. I will be your guard within the train station and the car ride to your new hometown, along with three other men who will be meeting us at the platform. I hope you enjoy your time here. You will be very safe, rest assured."

"Thank you," I say. He nods and leaves as abruptly as he came. I stand, insides writhing, intending to look for my mother before we get off of the train. I know that she must be having just as hard a time as I am, having to learn all of these new things. And working in an auto mechanics shop…my mother has never been the mechanical sort. If we ever needed something fixed, we'd call Gale.

Gale. I can't think of him, either.

Of the two people who decided to remain in Panem (the second being Haymitch) while the rest of us were taken in by the WPP, Gale was the most likely to make something of himself. What job did he take, back in District 2? District commissioner, district attorney, something like that. Something fancy and above me. Maybe it was meant to be – he never looked back, that's for sure. But I can't help but wonder how he's doing now…

As I approach, I find my mother's door already propped open, probably out of a fear that she will be locked in again. I peek around the doorframe. She's standing by the bed, her back turned to me, head bowed over something I can't quite make out. Some sort of paper.

"Mom?"

Her head snaps up, and in her pocket goes the paper, which I now see is actually a photograph. One that had survived the war, too, if the rips and stains along the edges are anything to go by. If I had to bet, I'd say it was my father. Prim. My father. The only two people in our family worth loving.

"Kat – I mean, Elizabeth. Done with your lesson so soon. Are you ready to leave? Have you packed your suitcase, everything?" says my mother, adopting a fake calm voice. Her eyes are red, like she's been crying. For some reason, this makes me uncomfortable, my mother's vulnerability. Well, anyone's vulnerability, really. I'm so used to covering up my emotions that it seems alien when anyone shows their real feelings.

"I'm ready," I say. "Are you?" I look doubtfully around her room, which is still strewn with dirty clothing and food wrappers. Without asking, I begin collecting the trash, some of which still contains food. My mother bundles up her clothes and stuffs them in her suitcase. Without a word, we succeed in making sure that the room looks presentable enough that the train people won't hate us when we leave.

"Thank you," says my mother, discretely wiping her eyes on her sleeve.

"You're welcome," I reply. I open my mouth to say something else, but a second passes and the moment is lost. I am not heartless. Sometimes I do feel bad that my mother and I don't speak to each other in more than basic questions. Sometimes I do feel bad that she has lost her husband and favorite child and all she has left in the world is someone who resents her. Sometimes I do feel bad that I never gave her a chance. But I have my own problems to worry about, don't I?

Even though we got off of the train at eleven, the sun is going down by the time shops and businesses pop up on the horizon. Before us is a long road, called a "freeway", which lies straight ahead of the little yellow taxi cab like a fallen tree trunk, only gray, with white dashes painted along the center. Shannon once told me that as I am seventeen, I'll have to get my driver's license soon, because most people my age already have theirs. I will have to go to a special school called "driver's-ed". There, I will be taught to operate a car of my own, and maybe even learn what the white dashed lines mean.

Lima looks exactly like those towns from the movies Shannon showed me. Flat, shabby, with a few neighborhoods here and there consisting of small houses. I look at them and wonder which will be my new home. There are people in the windows of some; regular-looking people, not flamboyant like the Capitol people, nor perfectly styled like in the movies. People who could have come right from the Seam.

I begin to notice that there's some speculation about our car as it passes through the town. People on the street point at us questioningly, looking to each other and gossiping, no doubt. I imagine they don't get many new people here, and when they do, it's a big deal. Great. Exactly the low-key entrance the WPP promised us we'd have. I just hope I can pretend to be normal enough that people soon forget I'm there. Anonymous. Hidden. Invisible. Just like the old days. Yes, the old days, before the reaping, before the nightlock, before the mockingjay…

Without my notice, my eyes shut, my head droops, and I fall into a deep sleep. I must nap for a long time, because when again I wake, we are parked in front of a red brick house with a small lawn. My mother is outside of the car, tapping on the window, calling my new name through the glass. "Elizabeth," she mouths, barely audible. "Come on, come see the new house!"

Groggily, I pull myself up to a sitting position and wait for my senses to readjust themselves. My backpack…where is my backpack? I couldn't have forgotten it on the train, I was wearing it when I got into the car…Fully awake now, I anxiously scramble out of the car and circle around back to the trunk, where the driver is unloading our few suitcases. My backpack sits safely on the ground, on top of my other bags. I breathe out a small sigh of relief. It's a good backpack, sturdy, and bright orange, just like –

_A boy, I think from District 9, reaches the pack at the same time I do and for a  
brief time we grapple for it and then he coughs, splattering my face with blood. I  
stagger back, repulsed by the warm, sticky spray. Then the boy slips to the  
ground. That's when I see the knife in his back. Already other tributes have  
reached the Cornucopia and are spreading out to attack. Yes, the girl from District  
2, ten yards away, running toward me, one hand clutching a half-dozen knives. I've  
seen her throw in training. She never misses. And I'm her next target._

_All the general fear I've been feeling condenses into at immediate fear of this  
girl, this predator who might kill me in seconds. Adrenaline shoots through me and  
I sling the pack over one shoulder and run full-speed for the woods. I can hear the  
blade whistling toward me and reflexively hike the pack up to protect my head.  
The blade lodges in the pack. Both straps on my shoulders now, I make for the  
trees._

"Elizabeth, Elizabeth! Elizabeth!" My mother's voice, screaming, pierces through my thoughts like a bullet. I find myself clutching the side of the car, the slick metal shell hot from the heat of the sun –

_I can't protect either of us on the ground. I start climbing, scaling  
the Cornucopia on my hands and feet. The pure gold surface has been designed to  
resemble the woven horn that we fill at harvest, so there are little ridges and  
seams to get a decent hold on. But after a day in the arena sun, the metal feels  
hot enough to blister my hands._

_Cato lies on his side at the very top of the horn, twenty feet above the ground,  
gasping to catch his breath as he gags over the edge. Now's my chance to finish  
him off. I stop midway up the horn and load another arrow, but just as I'm about to  
let it fly, I hear Peeta cry out. I twist around and see he's just reached the tail, and  
the mutts are right on his heels._

"My God, is she having an episode?" This time, it's not my mother's voice, but a stranger's that catches my attention. A woman's voice, warm and concerned. The Cornucopia vanishes, the mutts vanish, even Peeta. A short, stocky woman with soft brown hair is running across our new lawn, running towards me. My mother tries to wave her off, but the woman pushes past her.

"I'm fine," I mutter.

"You don't look fine," says the woman. She yanks off the pair of stained gardening gloves she was wearing and uses her cool hand to tip my chin towards the sky. With her free hand she holds up two fingers, waving them in front of my face. "How many?" she demands.

"Two," I respond calmly.

She relaxes. "Not a concussion, at least. Though I probably wouldn't be able to tell if there really was one." The woman turns to my mother and laughs, as though she's just told a joke. My mother, confused, laughs along with her. "I'm a single mom. Taking a few part-time jobs here and there. You know how it is." My mother nods, as if she does in fact know what the woman is talking about.

"Do you live there?" my mother asks uncomfortably, pointing to the house right next to ours. The woman nods.

"Yes, yes indeed. Been living here for fifteen years, ever since the husband died. He was a Marine. But I've got my boy to keep me company. I'm Carole Hudson, by the way. Did you mention your names?" Remember your name, remember your name, remember your name, I silently beg of my mother.

"It's…" she pauses, and I panic. "It's Sarah. Sarah…Hamilton. Yes." Relief sweeps through my body as the woman turns to me next.

"Elizabeth Hamilton," I say.

She shakes both of our hands. "You sure you're okay there, Elizabeth?" she asks me. I nod convincingly. "Good. Now about how old would you be? 'Bout sixteen, seventeen?"

"Yeah, seventeen," I nod.

"My boy's just your age this year. Speaking of him, where is he? Out back, practicing his football, I expect. Wants to go to State Championships this year. Yep. That's my boy. Ambitious as can be." She swells with pride. "Son, where are you? Get out here! You get out here and meet the new neighbors!"

_Oh no, please don't, please don't_, I think to myself. I remember the events of this morning, practicing conversation with Shannon, and how fake I sounded. A real American teenager is going to see through me in an instant. Panic rises like vomit in the back of my throat as the back gate of Carole Hudson's yard swings open to reveal the boy who is apparently her son.

At seventeen years old he stands taller than Gale, easily clearing six feet and probably doubling Gale's muscle mass. According to Shannon this is what all football players look like, but I never really thought it would be true. As the boy approaches, I have to tilt my head back to look up at him. His eyes flit from the taxi to my mother to me, and away again. Afraid to make eye contact, like Peeta – no. I can't think of him either.

Other than his size, he is a plain-looking boy, brown-haired, with unfocused brown eyes and a mouth hanging slightly open. He doesn't look very cunning, but appearances can be deceiving. Right now, if I have anything to go on, it's his sweat-soaked shirt and black exercise pants. He's an athlete, which means a physical asset, but probably not an intelligent one. If this were the Games, I would ally with him only if there were no other options.

I really need to stop thinking about the Games.

"Uh, hi. I'm Finn." Finn, did he just say Finn? Don't think of Finnick, don't think of Finnick, don't think about how he was blown apart, ripped to shreds. I tell myself to keep calm. "What's your name?"

"It's Elizabeth."

"That's cool. Elizabeth's a cool name. Kinda long, though. Can I call you Beth?" Beth. The name falls strangely on my tongue, yet I can't help but like it. Simple and short, Beth is. It would be a whole new name to remember, but Shannon once told me that friends often give other friends nicknames. I'm not sure if I'd like to be friends with this Finn boy yet, but it'd be better to go into my new school knowing at least one person.

"Yeah, sure," I agree. He smiles.

"Cool. Do you play video games?"

"Video – what?" I remember Shannon saying something about video games, but I can't think of quite what they are. Some sort of computer thing. Finn looks astonished and, sparing a glance to our mothers, who are now engaged in conversation about who knows what, he leads me across the grass, up the porch steps, and through the front door of his house.

Inside, the entryway leads to a messy living room with a plush couch and a large television, much flatter than the one we had back in our home in District 12. Stationed in front of the television is a strange-looking monitor device made of shiny black plastic. He turns it on before pressing a button on the monitor, the tiny lights running up and down the sides turning a shade of bright green, like the doors on the train. He then digs through a clear plastic box holding a tangled mess of gray and black plastic controllers. It seems almost everything is made of plastic, here. Finally he emerges with two identical black ones and hands one to me, as if I'd know what to do with it.

"It's like this," he explains, positioning my hands around the controller. He points to the buttons on each side, describing their purpose, which make it sound like some sort of weapon. The game we are to be playing, he informs me, is called _Call of Duty_ and is apparently the most crucial game I need to learn if I am ever to be a regular video game player.

To my surprise, it's actually a lot of fun.

Finn is surprised to find that after learning how to master the controls, I am actually extremely skilled at this game. My months of training back in the District 13 rebel army camp have prepared me well. Next to fighting in a full-fledged war, some measly little computer simulation is nothing.

And the deaths…The killing in this game is so distant, so separated from what actual killing is, that I don't feel myself going rigid like I usually do whenever I remember something from the past. If you shoot at someone, they go down instantly, painlessly. A few splatters of red on the screen indicate your own injuries. When you die, you are reset back to the beginning. No risk, no danger.

It's just a game. So yes, maybe it's an easy one, and maybe it's only played by people like Finn Hudson, and maybe violent video games are not so good for people recovering from a war. But hey, as long as it keeps the ghosts away, right?

And there are much worse games to play.

Suddenly, I hear the sound of the front door opening and I drop the controller in surprise, accidentally killing one of my men. It's my mother, her face rather paler than usual. I stand immediately. "What's wrong?" I ask.

"Elizabeth, you'd better come home now. Thank Finn for letting you play video games with him," she says tersely.

I thank Finn, who merely nods, eyes still glued to the television screen. Following my mother back outside and into our new house, already furnished and closely resembling Finn's, I try to get a response out of her, but she won't speak to me until we're plopped down on the overstuffed blue corduroy couch in front of our own massive television.

"Katniss," she says. It's the first time I've heard her say my real name in a while, and I can't help but think of how nice it sounds. The name Elizabeth stands for the mask, the lie, that is my new life here. It stands for the forgetting. So much forgetting. Not allowing myself to think of the people who I loved, the people I lost, the people who were lost because of me. There's something not right about this. Remembering them honors them in a way, preserves them. But how can I preserve them when I can barely hold myself together?

And Finn called me "Beth".

I like "Beth" because it's kind of an in-between name. In between forgetting and remembrance, in between new and old, in between wounding and healing, just like me. Not my first choice, but perfect all the same.

"Katniss."

"Yes?"

"The mailman just stopped by. This came. It's addressed to you, I mean, to Elizabeth Hamilton. I don't know what it could be. I haven't opened it or anything." From inside of her dress pocket she pulls out a thin white envelope. The front is clearly marked to Elizabeth Hamilton of 414 Whitman Avenue Lima, OH 45802. This address exactly. But who in the world would write me a letter?

Hands shaking slightly, I tear open the envelope and pull out the piece of paper inside. It's a one-page note written in green pen and, again, addressed to Elizabeth. For a second I am truly thinking that this may all be some strange mistake when suddenly I recognize the handwriting…the neatness, the perfectly drawn letters, the sketches of flowers decorating the margins…the letter is signed by "Alex Harrison", but I know in a heartbeat who it really is. The letter slips from my trembling fingers to the floor as I whisper:

"Peeta."


	2. First Day

_Dear Elizabeth,_

_ I've been thinking about writing to you for a while now. I'm glad I'm finally getting around to it. You probably don't remember me, but I'm Alex Harrison, the boy who you met at the gas station in Chicago. We started talking, you told me you were moving to Ohio, and I told you I was moving to Kentucky. You gave me your new address and said I could write to you. Remember now? _

_ Anyway, I hope you and your mom made it to your new town okay. We did. It took us about sixteen more hours of non-stop driving, but in the end we got there without any major disasters._

_ I'm in the eleventh grade this year, the same as you. I'm pretty nervous about starting a new school and all. I expect most of the kids will have known each other since preschool, probably, and I'll be the outsider for a while. Oh, well – take life as it comes, right? Though I know you won't have any problems making new friends._

_ Well actually, to be fair, there is one other kid I know, my dad's new assistant's son. His name is Sam. Sam Evans, I think. He's pretty nice._

_ So I hope everything's okay and you're settled in and all that. Don't forget to write back – I'm really glad that I met you._

_Sincerely,_

_Alex Harrison_

I read the letter over and over again, read it until I've committed it to memory. Peeta. It's him, no doubt about it. I've never met an "Alex Harrison" in my life, and I don't even know what a gas station is. Somehow, he's managed to get ahold of my fake identity, my address, and on top of all of that, make up a convincing backstory so that nothing seems unusual.

I am about to fold the letter into my pocket when I pause as a thought occurs to me. I have to write him back. How in the world am I going to write him back? I'm nowhere near as creative as him. What could I say? What is there to say that wouldn't give us both away?

My mother, seated patiently on the couch next to me, leans over my shoulder slightly in an attempt to read the words on the paper, but I quickly whip it out of sight. "It's just advertising junk," I lie, pulling a face of disgust. "They want my credit card number." She laughs.

"Oh, well if that's all…" she says, looking reassured.

So as not to raise suspicion, I casually stand and find my way to my new bedroom for some privacy. But…

Oh, wow. The WPP really did think of everything. On both sides of me, the hallway is lined with photographs from my old school in District 12. They've even edited some of the pictures to make it look as if I had gone to Disneyland, the movie theater, and the park. To my great surprise, one of the frames includes my father.

Inside my brand new bedroom, there is a small purple bed and a desk. I find it amusing that someone has already taken the care to pre-dirty it for me. Clothes are strewn around the floor. A bottle of nail polish is tipped over sideways on the desk, its turquoise contents forming a small puddle. It looks like an the bedroom of an American teenager, alright, straight out of a movie.

I sit down behind the desk, _my_ desk, for the first time, feeling stranger than I did in the Capitol for the first time. Inside the drawer are stationary sheets and a pen. I grab both and lay them out, Peeta's letter spread in front of me. But I can't find the words to say. Peeta was always the one with the words. And me…well, I was the girl on fire.

After a few minutes of thought, I come up with _Dear Alex_. That seems a normal enough way to start a letter. Now what? I imagine the things I want to say. I miss you, I'm scared for you, I'm scared for myself. I have nightmares about the war every time I fall asleep. I don't want to be here, in Ohio, with people I don't know. I keep seeing Prim in stranger's faces.

_ Of course I remember you! Thank you for writing! I'm glad you made it home safely. We're fine, already unpacked and everything. Our neighbors are nice. Lima is very beautiful and a pleasant town._

_ And don't worry about starting a new school, because I'm nervous, too. I'll be going to a place called William McKinley High. It's not very big, but I don't know anyone yet._

I cross that last part out, remembering the boy, Finn Hudson.

_It's not very big, but I only know one person so far. His name is Finn. He's really nice. His mom greeted us when we first arrived. Then Finn took me to his house to play the video game computer simulation called _Call of Duty_. It's a lot of fun. I think I might purchase it later on, and play it using my television. _

_ Sam sounds nice. Now we'll both know at least one person going into school. Do you know what classes you're going to take yet? I think I'm going to take a math class and also a history class. That will be fun._

If Shannon could read this, she'd be cringing.

_The first day of school is tomorrow. I've already got my backpack and pencils. Tell me how yours goes, and I'll tell you how mine goes! Don't be afraid. You'll do great. Good luck!_

_Sincerely,_

_Elizabeth Hamilton_

Yes, I am a bad writer, and the letter is so fake and transparent that a real American teenager would think I was mentally insane, but Peeta won't care. It was enough to see his words, handwritten, on a page. Addressed to me – well, not me, but Elizabeth Hamilton. I don't care. As long as it means that he's alright.

From outside, I hear the deep rumble of a car's engine on the street. I peek through the window facing the driveway to see a sleek red car pull up at the curb of Finn Hudson's house. Out of the vehicle steps a beautiful blonde girl, as lovely as Glimmer.

She's dressed strangely, in a red, white, and black sleeveless shirt with the letters WMHS printed on the front and skirt that shows most of her legs. Some kind of a cheerleader, if the American movies have taught me anything. How oddly they dress. I wonder if the material is engineered to enhance flexibility or strength.

I mentally shake myself. This isn't the Capitol, I remember. This isn't the arena, the place with so many enhancements that you go crazy long before you're even close to victory. Everything here is real.

"_You love me. Real or not real?"_

"_Real."_

Stop it, stop it, stop it.

I can think about the Capitol later; right now, Peeta is waiting for me to return his letter, to assure him that I'm alright. If I know him, he won't be able to sleep until he knows that everyone he loves is safe. It was always his most dangerous trait.

The stationary I used to write my letter comes with a little pink envelope. Carefully, I fold the paper and tuck it inside, though the flap won't shut even after I press down on it hard. What had Shannon told me about envelopes? There was a trick to closing them. I remember it was something funny…

Perhaps Finn knows about sending a letter. Should I ask him, should I dare? I glance at the blinking electric clock on my bedside table. Only an hour has passed since I had last seen him. I only hope he doesn't think me an idiot for asking something that would seem so simple to anyone else.

Here goes nothing.

On my way over, I get a chance to look at the car parked on the curb. It's bright red and extremely shiny, as if someone spent hours polishing it. It belongs to someone wealthy, no doubt. Probably even wealthier than my old friend Madge Undersee, the mayor's daughter.

After two short knocks on the Hudsons' front door, Carole's face appears once again. She welcomes me in warmly. "Why, hello there," she says cheerfully. "Finn – Finn, come down! Elizabeth is here! And tell Quinn she can come and meet her too!"

Quinn and Finn. I wonder if they're together, if they're in love, like the girls at my old school used to talk about. My suspicions are confirmed when they walk downstairs with their fingers intertwined.

The cheerleader girl's grip on Finn's hand is deadly. Her pretty blonde head snaps from me to Finn and back to me, blue eyes like daggers in their fierceness. When she speaks, I'm surprised at the calmness of her voice. "Finn, who is this girl?" she asks, nodding to me.

"That's Beth," replies Finn, completely unaware of his girlfriend's sudden change of mood. "She just moved in next door. Beth, this is Quinn. Quinn – Beth."

I hold my hand out to shake. She takes it gingerly, as if I might possess some contagious disease. "Where are you from?" she demands of me.

"Atlanta, Georgia," I recite.

"And what do you want with him?" Her calm appearance is beginning to fade, suddenly giving me the strong feeling that I am unwelcome here.

"I – I was just wondering if – if –" I stammer, my face reddening. Finally Finn notices the envelope in my hand.

"Oh, you need some stamps?" he says kindly.

"Yeah," I say in relief. I don't actually need stamps. In fact, I distinctly recall a pile of them sitting near the kitchen counter of our house. What I really need is someone to tell me how to use an envelope, but this girl looks so forbidding that I'd rather just get out of here alive and come back tomorrow.

Finn walks past me to a small wooden cabinet, emerging with a strip of eagle-printed stamps. He hands them all to me, saying, "This should last you a while."

"Thanks," I murmur, turning to flee.

"Wait just one second," says the cheerleader girl. She moves forward abruptly and takes hold of my arm. For a second my Game instincts take over and I have the urge to fight her, but her clamp on my elbow is like a vice as she drags me to the front door, out of earshot of Finn, who looks surprised and half-tempted to come between us.

"Listen here," the girl whispers in my ear. "You might play innocent, but if you try anything with Finn, you're dead. You two may be neighbors, but that is all you're ever going to be. Understand?"

I nod quickly, though I don't understand, not really.

"So this is your warning call. Don't ignore it. Don't ignore me. And remember this: Finn couldn't care less about you, so you better back off."

With those words she releases me, and I am left to stumble back home.

* * *

High school is definitely not like the movies.

Standing at the foot of the steps to the William McKinley High School, I can't help but feel real terror coursing through my blood. This was a huge mistake to come here, to get involved in any of this. I should have stayed back in District 12 with Gale, with Haymitch, with the new republic of Panem. I don't belong here.

On either side of me people are flooding through the doors or else standing in crowds, talking, laughing, greeting friends, chatting on cell phones or applying makeup. A group of loud girls crowds near me, glossy American magazines spread open and the strong chemical scent of nail polish lingering in the air. Another group, this one with shiny gold instruments, huddles on the grass with their heads together, comparing what looks like sheet music. Over on the covered patio I see some cheerleaders. I look, but Quinn isn't among them.

"Hey, watch it!" someone shouts. I turn around to see a boy riding on some sort of wheeled plank, wobbling unsteadily as he swerves to avoid hitting me. Seconds later, an adult man runs onto the scene. A whistle swings from a string around his neck. Putting it to his lips, he blows hard three times, making everyone around him jump.

"No skateboards on campus, Wilson! That's two weeks' detention, and I expect five extra laps from you at practice tonight!" the man shouts at the boy. "Hey, are you okay? That was a close shave."

It takes me several seconds to realize that he's speaking to me. "Oh, yes," I nod quickly. The man is big-boned and has black hair, reminding me slightly of a grizzly bear. I notice that there are dark sweat stains under his armpits.

At that moment, a thin woman with soft orange hair approaches the man. "Ken, did you tell Wilson to get off his skateboard? That's the sixteenth time since he's been here. Maybe I should call him into my office one of these days…"

"You work too hard, Em," says the man comfortingly, placing a meaty hand on the woman's slim shoulder. She stifles a look of disgust, removing herself and taking a few steps away for safety.

"I hope you're okay," the woman says to me. I nod. "You know, I haven't seen you around before. What grade are you in?"

"The…tenth…I mean, the eleventh," I say, hoping I'm right.

"Have you been here this whole time?" she asks, looking confused.

"No," I reply. "I just moved here from Atlanta, Georgia. My mother got a job working at Hummel Tires & Lube."

"Oh, a new student!" says the woman excitedly. Her honey-colored eyes, perfectly round like a deer's, light up in welcome. "My name is Ms. Pillsbury. I'm the guidance counselor here at McKinley High. You can come with me. We'll need to set you up, get your schedule and everything…"

Seemingly relieved at being able to escape the grizzly bear man, she places a hand behind my shoulders and walks me into the building.

Despite everything, I can't help but smile. Inside, it looks just like a television show I saw called _90210_. The linoleum floor, the lockers, the people…everything. This woman, Ms. Pillsbury, chatters to me the whole time we walk. "I do hope you'll like it here. It's a very nice place, lots of things to do and classes that you'll love. What did you say your name was?"

"Elizabeth Hamilton."

"Well, Elizabeth, things are a little bit different in Ohio than they were in Georgia, but I'm sure you'll adjust just fine. Remember, the most important rule is to be yourself. I have pamphlets on it, if you're interested."

"Uh, sure." What's a pamphlet?

"And don't forget, there are a whole list of clubs and activities if you're interested in joining. Were you in any clubs back in your old school?"

I shake my head no.

"Well, here we have the marching band, chess club, hockey, football, everything you would find at any top-notch establishment. And, of course, there's the Cheerios. That's what we call our cheerleading squad. Cheerleading's very popular here at McKinley! But if you want to join, you'll have to talk to Sue."

"Sue?" I repeat. I see Ms. Pillsbury shudder involuntarily.

"Sorry, I meant Coach Sylvester. Her office is in the east wing. You can talk to her about it, if you like." By her facial expression, the woman didn't look as if talking to this Sue Sylvester was a very good idea.

"Thank you," I say, "but I actually don't think I'll be joining any clubs yet. I just want to get to know the school right now." It's the most I've said here so far. Ms. Pillsbury pats my hand understandingly.

"Of course, I completely understand. It's tough being the new kid. Oh, here we are already!" We have arrived at a door identical to every other one in the building. The only thing that identifies it is the small golden plaque that reads "Emma Pillsbury – Guidance Counselor". In one practiced motion the woman takes a key from her purse, unlocks the door, and pushes it open.

Inside, there are a desk and two chairs. She take a seat behind the desk and I sit opposite her, glancing around briefly at the different photographs on the walls. I do a double-take when I see Finn's face in one of the pictures. He's wearing what looks like a football uniform, crouched down low on the field, holding the small brown oval-shaped ball under one arm.

"Do you have your transcripts?" asks Ms. Pillsbury, typing something on her computer. From a compartment in my backpack I pull out a black folder which the WPP gave to me earlier this summer. She takes it and looks through some of the papers, nodding in satisfaction.

"Well, Ms. Hamilton, it looks like you're a good student." She smiles at me warmly, but I only shrug. The grades on the transcript were created by agents, specially written so that I wouldn't stand out – not too low, not too high. In the "B" range, as I was told. But maybe that's good, here.

Something starts beeping on a large gray machine under the desk, startling me. A black and white paper slides out of its mouth. Ms. Pillsbury picks it up, glances at it, then hands it to me. "Your class schedule," she explains. "Do you need a map of the school?"

* * *

"Welcome to Spanish I. My name is Mr. Schuester."

Before me stands a young curly-haired teacher, pointing to a white board with unfamiliar words on it. Ms. Pillsbury had informed me that William McKinley High School requires all students to take a foreign language.

"I know that most of you are familiar faces, but why don't we all play a little icebreaker game just to make sure everybody knows everybody?" suggests the instructor.

A small groan sounds from all corners of the room. "Please, Mr. Schue," whines a sturdy-looking girl with deep brown skin. She sits with her feet on the desk in the front row, a nail file in hand. "Come on, we ain't little kids."

"I know you're not, Mercedes, but we have a new student this year." He gives a polite nod in my direction. Instantly, twenty faces turn towards me, some resentful, others curious. The Mercedes girl stares at me coolly.

"How about we start with our latest addition?" continues the teacher, Mr. Schuester. He smiles at me encouragingly, like Gale when he tries not to frighten off a prey. I am the prey here. "Would you like to begin? How about you tell us your name and something about yourself."

"My name is Elizabeth. I'm seventeen years old."

"Alright, but…is there something else about yourself that you want us to know?"

"Oh." I blink. "I…um, well, I like to…" As I pause to think, the other students grow bored again and go back to whatever they were doing. Mercedes continues shaping her fingernails. Mr. Schuester waits patiently. I panic, and blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. "I like cheerleading."

That gets everyone's attention. "That's great," says Mr. Schuester happily. "You know, we do have a cheerleading squad here. They're called the Cheerios. And I believe you can talk to Coach Sylvester if you're interested in joining. It would be great to have you on the team. They're a nice bunch of girls."

Again, I noticed that everything after the words "Coach Sylvester" seemed substantially less cheerful. Who was this woman, and why did she make people react this way? What kind of person would have such a bad reputation?

And what was I even thinking in the first place? I never should have said that I liked cheerleading. Whatever this Quinn girl does, I don't want to be a part of. That would probably just give her even more of a reason to hate me – if she gets jealous over a boy, she'd get jealous over a sport, too. I don't need targets on my back.

The introductions continue around the room. Mercedes likes something called "tater tots". A boy named Jeremy has played the piano for ten years. Others dance, play sports, instruments, board games. Some collect things. Some write stories. And Mr. Schuester is interested in every single one of them.

He even manages to draw out the shy ones, who speak in a quiet voice and don't make eye contact. Asking them questions about how long they've been doing this, how long they've been collecting that. By the end of their turn they sit up a few inches taller.

And then I make another big mistake. I think of my father.

"Hey, Elizabeth."

Watching from a distance, Mr. Schuester reminds me of him exactly. The mannerisms, the gestures, the voice that is low but assuring at the same time, the kindness in the way he treats everyone he meets. Perhaps my very earliest memory of my father is the time when we'd made an exceptionally good trade on bread that morning, and spent the rest of the day passing the extra out to the people on the street.

"Hey, can you hear me?"

I don't allow myself to hold on to many details about my father, to let anyone else know that his death still haunts me. The other memories are already fading. All that is left are songs.

"Elizabeth, you're scaring me."

_Are you, are you__  
__Coming to the tree__  
__Where they strung up a man they say murdered three__  
__Strange things did happen here__  
__No stranger would it be__  
__If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree__  
_

"Are you sick or something? Do you need to lie down?"

_Are you, are you__  
__Coming to the tree__  
__Where the dead man called out for his love to flee__  
__Strange things did happen here__  
__No stranger would it be__  
__If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree_

"Elizabeth, can you hear me? Talk to me. Say something."_Are you, are you__  
__Coming to the tree__  
__Where I told you to run so we'd both be free__  
__Strange things did happen here__  
__No stranger would it be__  
__If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree__  
_

"Elizabeth?"

_Are you, are you__  
__Coming to the tree__  
__Wear a necklace of rope, side by side with me__  
__Strange things did happen here__  
__No stranger would it be__  
__If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree_

"Uh…hello? Elizabeth?"

There is a tiny puddle of tears on my desk. My cheeks are wet, my eyes blurred. At some point I must have started crying. It's a good thing I'm in the back row of the class, or else others might have noticed. The other students are absorbed in Mr. Shuester, completely unaware.

"Are you alright?"

I realize that the boy sitting next to me has been trying to get through to me for a while now. "I'm sorry," I apologize. "What were you saying?"

"I said, are you alright?" says the boy again, in a whisper so that the teacher doesn't hear.

He sits about a head taller than me, with neatly parted brown hair and a pale complexion. The coat that he wears is strikingly blue and has a large silver zipper running crookedly across the chest. For some reason, I get the sense that Cinna would have liked it. Cinna never believed in blending in.

"So, you're new?" the boy continues. I nod while cleaning myself up, making myself presentable again. "I understand. McKinley High is a rough place. A lot of guys you have to watch out for. People can be really mean."

He thinks I'm crying because I'm new. This strikes me as oddly kind. "Thank you. I think I'm just overwhelmed."

"Yeah, that happens." He offers me a small smile. "My name's Kurt Hummel. Oh, and please excuse the smell. Some football meatheads tossed me in the dumpster this morning. Luckily, they spared this gorgeous coat…"

"I'm Elizabeth Hamilton. Did you say someone threw you in the dumpster?" I repeat. "That's terrible. Did you tell anybody?"

"Nah, it never works. None of the teachers in this place care."

"Well, what about Ms. Pillsbury?" I say. His face shows a mixture of blank surprise and incredulity before he breaks out into silent laughter.

"You really are new, aren't you?"

"Why, what's wrong with her?"

"Nothing's wrong with her, but you try going to the counselor without getting a slushie in the face. They'll call you a psycho. Or a retard. Or Special Ed. Depends on what mood they're in. Anyways, it's never nice."

"Who is the 'them' you keep mentioning?"

"Well, you know, _those _guys. Every school has them."

"You mean like the guys who threw you in the dumpster?"

"Yeah."

"Who were they? What were their names? What did they look like?" I press eagerly.

Kurt Hummel sighs a big breath out. He then grins at me. "You know, you ask a lot of questions. It's okay, though. You're new. You'll learn soon enough. As for your last one…well, it was a few people. There's this guy called Noah Puckerman - everyone just calls him 'Puck'. He's not too nice. Oh, and Finn was there –"

"What?" I say, too loudly. Several people at the surrounding tables glance over at us. I lower my voice to a breath. "Finn Hudson? He helped throw you in the dumpster?"

"Well, he didn't actually toss me, but he was there, watching. Why, do you know him, or something?" The boy's eyebrows were raised in surprise.

"He's my neighbor."

I close my eyes for a moment and take in the information. Finn didn't seem intelligent, not in the least, but I didn't expect he would be like this, either. I don't know how I feel. Suddenly, Beth becomes a stupid name in my mind. Stupid and fake and corny. I am Elizabeth Hamilton. I am Katniss Everdeen. I am anything but Beth.

"Uh, Kurt?" I say. "Can I ask something else?"

"Fire away."

"What's a slushie?"

The boy's mouth falls open in utter astonishment. He stares at me as if I'd cracked. "You're joking, right?" I shake my head no. A strange look passes over his face, turning up the corners of his mouth, as if he has some brilliant idea forming in his brain.

"See me after school."


End file.
